Life of Pit
by MoldyOboe
Summary: Marching season through eyes of the unloved.
1. Rejection

A/N: Hi there! Oh look at the nice people reading my story! Just a warning, it sucks! But Holley and Robbie are making me write it, so hey! Anyway, just to clarify, I don't hate my oboe… I just wish it was marchable. But, continuing…  
  
Chapter One:  
  
(Insert Title Here)  
  
Emily sighed as she sat in the stands watching the game. Strains of "The Horse" filled the air and echoed off the cold metal bleachers surrounding her. She listened to the screaming fans and wondered, "Why would anyone voluntarily go to a football game?"  
  
A pitster besides her laughed, "You know they just come to see us, Em."  
  
Emily shrugged and replied, "They come to see the band march. Not us pitlings. We don't matter, remember?"  
  
Emily was bitter. Pit had never been overly appreciated in her band, but just this morning an exceptionally anal French horn had told her that pit wasn't really a part of band.  
  
"You just sit there on the sidelines and jack around," the hornist had yelled, the anger in her voice becoming stronger every second. "You don't belong on the field!"  
  
Though the comment wasn't entirely undeserved, it had made Emily cry. Not sob, mind you, but a single tear had slid down her cheek and onto her beautifully old, beat-up marimba. She had quickly dried her eyes as Mr. Hazzard shouted at the band to hustle back to set nine and try it just one more time, but the rude remark still stung. After all, it wasn't Emily's fault she played oboe. Nobody had told her they didn't march.  
  
"If only I had chosen another instrument," she mused.  
  
Emily still remembered that fateful day she signed up for band. She had been pulled out of choir rehearsal by Ms. Rosen, the director at McMath Middle School. Ms. Rosen was a red-haired, sharp-faced woman who had a passion for band jokes. She had looked at Emily and asked her if she knew what she wanted to play. The timid sixth –grader she had been merely shook her head.  
  
"Well, dearest, how about we put you on bassoon or oboe, what do you think?"  
  
Emily had agreed to play oboe (obviously) and spent her entire summer before seventh grade trying to figure out what an oboe was. Even then she had regretted being conned into playing an instrument she knew nothing about, but that was four years ago.  
  
Now she glanced at the score-board, not caring whether the team won or lost, but rather keeping track of how long she had before it was time to go down and set up pit shit, as it was so fondly known. The clock read seven minutes until half-time, so she summoned her fellow pitlings and the left the stands to go get ready for the show. 


	2. The morning after...

A/N: Truth, this is not how Robbie talks. But he'll just have to deal with that, now won't he! Hahahaha (evil laughter!)  
  
Chapter Two  
  
(Insert Title Here)  
  
The next morning, Emily awoke to the lyrics of a Barenaked Ladies song blaring from her alarm clock. "Ugh, it's early…" she groaned as she punched in the general direction of the noise. After letting it go off a bit, Emily managed to shut off the alarm and roll out of bed. She grabbed her uniform bag and made a haphazard attempt to get ready. In the end, she just pulled her wild hair into a frizzy pony-tail. She didn't care how she looked. A few minutes later, after a breakfast of Pop-Tarts and a Sprite, she rushed out the door, hoping not to be late.  
  
"This is much to early to be awake," thought the oboist. "Especially after staying out so late last night…"  
  
The game had gone into overtime last night, and then after it had finally ended a bunch of the geeks had gone to Frosty's, the traditional post-game gathering place. It had been after one in the morning when the boners stopped crooning their new and improved version of "The Ants Go Marching," and the crowd had dispersed. If Emily had been a person to need sleep, she would have regretted staying out so late, but the previous marching season had taught her that sleep was unnecessary if you had loads of caffeine and seventy-five other exuberant band geeks shouting, "The ants go marching eight by eight, the little one stopped to masturbate…" at the top of their lungs.  
  
Emily stopped reminiscing and began to worry a bit as the car rolled to a slow stop in front of the band hall. They had all worked so hard this year. There had been countless hours in the heat, cold, and rain. Thousands of extra practices called by section leaders. Nights with no sleep. All the yelling and the frustration and the pain. The dedication was amazing. Never before had the DHS Band cared so much about performing well. It would be devastating if they froze on the field and bombed it. Not only would it be embarrassing, but it would be such a set back in the mentality of the group; they were not yet self confident about their skills and getting bad ratings would only further lower their esteem.  
  
As Emily stepped out of the car she was greeted with and enormous hug from her best friend and pit captain, Autumn. Autumn was a red-headed, rather dramatic, senior. She was often depressed, but loved nonetheless. She was also the laziest person in band, and most probably, the world. True to form, she hadn't bothered to gather pit shit. Emily, however, soon got down to business.  
  
"Hey Liz," she called to a fellow sophomore, "Wanna take the vibes down to the truck for me?" Liz complied with a flick of her long black hair and a smile. She exited the band hall, vibes in hand.  
  
Before she could get out the door, Liz heard Emily snap at Tyler, "Get your lazy bum up now, Tyler! Go find all our mallets and sticks and don't forget the triangle beaters."  
  
Emily smiled to herself. She had known Tyler since the first grade and loved bossing him around, especially since he was bigger and she couldn't beat him up anymore. Tyler grumbled and whined, but slowly he began to rise from his position on the floor and scrounge around for the auxiliary equipment. Emily grabbed for the marimba to load, but managed to get it stuck in the drum room before calling for help from Robbie.  
  
"Oh Sh'mly," he laughed as he set down his polishing cloth and baritone. "I know the thing is hard to maneuver, but cripes!"  
  
Emily glared at him and threatened , "Robbie, I swear, if you don't get your keester over here and help me move this thing… oh, come on! Just help! Please!"  
  
"Why'd I want help a pitster! You guys don't matter, 'member?" he joked, but stood up and began to give his assistance.  
  
As they began to steer the instrument out of the small room a crash and a few obscenities were heard coming from the direction of the truck.  
  
Emily groaned, "This cannot be good. Not good at all…" 


End file.
